


Heart is a Drum

by HeyMurphy



Series: Managing Pickles [3]
Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, explicit use of a drum solo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:41:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23591764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeyMurphy/pseuds/HeyMurphy
Summary: Charles likes to watch a certain drummer do what he does best...
Relationships: Charles Foster Offdensen/Pickles the Drummer
Series: Managing Pickles [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683898
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	Heart is a Drum

Charles staggered into his private suite and locked the door behind him. Blessed fucking silence. What a day. He dropped onto the sofa with his briefcase and let his head lean back. For a few blissful moments he entertained the bizarre notion of taking a nice bath and going to bed early, of just reclining into the pillows on his bed, freshly clean, smelling of his lavender soap.

Unfortunately there was still work to be done before he could rest. He needed to revise Skwisgaar’s paternity waiver due to some murky language that probably only he noticed, but better safe than sorry, and better to get it done sooner than later with the way Skwisgaar went through women.

He sat up a little, fully intending to pop open his briefcase and get to work, but a familiar snugness in his slacks made him pause. Not now. Not when he had things to do. Why did he always get an erection when he allowed himself to relax? It was very inconvenient.

Defiantly, Charles opened the briefcase anyway and leaned forward to set up his laptop on the coffee table, but the friction made his breath catch. Fine. All right. He could get it over with quickly enough, and then he’d have the rest of the night to work. 

With a few clicks he set up the video he wanted to use. It was short and sweet, only four minutes and sixteen seconds. Charles knew every beat of it by heart and knew it would do the trick. It always did. He clicked play and sat back to hurriedly undo his belt.

_00:01_

The roar of the audience got his blood pumping immediately. They cheered and chanted, muddled at first, then growing into a deafening crescendo—” _Piiiiickles! Piiiiickles! Piiiiickles!_ ”

Charles shimmied his slacks and boxer briefs just enough to free himself. In the video, the camera swept over the crowd and then swiveled up to Pickles sitting shirtless behind his kit. It was footage from the last half of a live show in Mumbai four years previous. The heat had been miserable, reaching nearly a hundred degrees even after the sun went down, and with the stage lights and the physical exertion, Pickles was flushed pink and dripping sweat. Even so, he donned his signature little half-grin, raised his sticks in the air, and crashed them down on the cymbals to begin the solo that would ultimately lead into “Road Rash Haircut”.

_00:27_

Charles never started until Pickles did. He gripped himself, cock now fully erect and already aching from anticipation. His body knew what was coming. Pickles played fast and tight on the cymbals, having fun with a complicated pattern. Charles curled his thumb and index finger snug around the head of his cock to match, smearing precum around the sensitive flesh. 

He watched, panting, as Pickles’ thighs bounced from double-stroking the bass pedals, and when he finally brought the toms into the rhythm, Charles slipped his other hand deeper into his open fly to palm his balls. A soft whine squeezed from his throat, and Pickles threw his head back and crowed when the camera soared over him to catch him from another angle.

_01:15_

The time signature changed as Pickles moved into a different section of the solo. This was more free-wheeling, looser, and Charles lengthened his strokes in kind. He shuddered at the rise in pleasure that gathered at his base like an arrow slowly pulled taut. His head swam. Going from zero to sixty like this always made him feel a bit faint, a bit breathless, but that was part of the experience.

Pickles rode the double bass pedals so hard he bit his lip against the strain. Charles bit his lip too. He liked this game, this back and forth. As Pickles built up speed, so did Charles, edging himself until the exact moment when he knew Pickles would back off the rhythm and change it up again.

_02:03_

From here it devolved into mayhem. The rhythm spiraled out, impossible to follow, except that Charles had followed it dozens of times and had learned the madness, had found the center in it. He felt a tug from his own center, like a hook in him, drawing him to the image of Pickles on the screen, sweating bullets, the muscles in his freckled arms tense and in control. Charles’ toes curled in his Italian loafers but it wasn’t time yet. It was almost his favorite part.

_02:42_

Suddenly Pickles stopped playing, only it wasn’t sudden for Charles. He groaned as he let go of his cock, rocking his hips into the couch. The audience screamed in unison for Pickles to continue, and Charles nearly screamed with them. 

“ _Hey ya fuckin’ douchebehgs!_ ” Pickles hollered from the video. “ _Who wahnts ta see Pickles tha drummer drink a beeeeer?_ ”

The screaming didn’t stop. Charles watched intently when Pickles leaned over on his throne to grab a bottle from a klokateer roadie, his jeans riding low and exposing the crack of his lily white ass. 

“Fuck,” Charles sighed. 

Pickles twisted off the cap and poured the amber contents into his mouth while mashing the double bass again, drinking most of it but letting a few gulps' worth spill down his chest and stomach. His wet nipples caught the glint of the stage lights and one of the drips made it all the way into the fine red hairs below his navel.

“Fuck.” A snarl this time as Charles resumed his stroking to the furious rhythm of that double bass. 

_03:31_

The finale. Pickles’ legs didn’t let up, just kept ramping up that delicious, delirious speed. He peppered in the multitude of toms and cymbals, making it look easy and effortless. He was smiling, melding with the kit, reaching almost a zen-like level of metal that beat at Charles’ heart like a blacksmith’s hammer. It was too much. This part was always too much. Charles worked himself harder, slick with precum. He felt obscene, out of control. His center constricted. He was close, so close.

At the climax of the solo, Pickles made eye contact with the camera, licked at his lips, and moaned as if making love to the drums.

_04:06_

That was it. “Mmn—hh!— _Pickles_ —” Charles finally let himself cum as his hips lifted off the sofa. His entire body pulsed with the force of the orgasm, waves like crashing cymbals radiating out from his cock down into his thighs and up through his ribs. He let Pickles’ rhythm fill him up, satisfy him, and then ebb away.

When he collapsed, the video had ended, and he quickly realized his mistake. He’d been too in the moment, too blissed out, and had cum in thick puddles across the front of his dress shirt and tie. Usually he had the presence of mind to whip out his handkerchief. 

The dethphone in his briefcase buzzed. Too late for a business call. Had to be one of the boys. Charles wiped his hand on his slacks, already accepting that his clothes would need to be sent down to the cleaners tonight, and answered.

“This is Charles,” he said. He hoped he didn’t sound strange. His mouth was dry.

“Heyyyyy Charlie,” came Pickles’ voice from the other end. 

“What can I do for you, Pickles?”

“Tha guys all left ‘n it’s jest lil’ ol’ me all alone in tha haht tub.”

Charles suppressed a shiver. “Oh, ah…”

“C’mahhhhn, come hang ouht with me. It’s been too lahng.”

He pawed at his soiled clothes and laughed at himself a bit. Who was he kidding, he wasn’t going to get any work done tonight. “I suppose it has. Give me a few minutes.”

“Hell fuckin’ yeeuh! Dat’s why I love ya, dood.”

Pickles hung up and Charles took a deep breath and put the phone down. “Love you, too.”

\m/


End file.
